Into the Fields
by goldenalbatross
Summary: With a new millennium drawing closer, Britain experiences a resurgence of religion, and decline in witchcraft. With the safety of magic at risk, four of the brightest witches and wizards come together out of necessity, bringing their own sets of problems.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

"You're far too young for a death wish, boy."

He'd been spotted.

Godric spun fast on his heel, hand reaching for the sword at his hip, despite his ignorance of the blade–it was little more than a trinket after all. He took comfort in the gesture nonetheless.

It wasn't long before Godric found his intruder resting languidly against an oak tree, an unreadable expression plastered across his face. The quirk of his lips hinted at dull amusement, but his eyes said otherwise.

The more he stared, the more certain he became that he'd seen this man somewhere before, even if a name and place escaped him. There was something familiar about the way he held himself, the rigid hold of his back, the tension in his shoulders...

His father. Not the man himself, but one of the many "acquaintances" that reared their heads every few months or so. This man he'd only seen once or twice before, quite recently, if he was remembering correctly. He was younger than the others. He still had a fair few years on Godric, granted, but he was worlds away from the peppered and worn aesthetic of Lord Gryffindor's usual companions.

Godric lowered his sword tentatively, content he wasn't to be ousted for the wizard he was by an ill-timed muggle. He hadn't meant to reach for his wand, or attend the burning at all, but both good intentions had been overridden by impulse. His curiosity drew him closer to the pyre, venturing away from the outskirts of the village and further into its core. His compassion, however, was the virtue that sought out the wand. What he'd intended do after that point, he didn't know, his plan hadn't progressed that far.

He wanted to save her. Do something, anything that might leave her with a viable escape route. She wasn't a witch, she didn't deserve the fate life was intent to give her.

The man moved from the tree, striding towards him, expression still as stoic as it was before. "Her life has already been marked, I fear, set aside for the pyre." His voice was low, gravelly even, from vocal exhaustion or genetic disposition, Godric couldn't determine. "She'll be dead before you have chance to blink, boy, whether you like it or not. Best avoid the conflict altogether."

Godric kept his eyes glued on the scene in front of him. He wanted nothing more than to look away, to pull his gaze from the onslaught of flames and the morbid symphony of screams, but he couldn't. Just as he was helpless to prevent her tragedy, he was helpless to look away.

"She couldn't be helped, Godric," he managed to tear his eyes away from the woman at the sound of his name. "You'll have your chance at martyrdom soon enough, in battles far greater than this."

He nodded meekly, still unconvinced.

"Come," the man placed a firm hand at his shoulder, "your father calls the feast—best not keep him waiting."

* * *

><p>The stone dug sharply into her back—but she wasn't conscious enough to care. Her body protested, begging for a chance to shy away from the jutting edges of rock, but Rowena made no attempt to move. She'd been rooted in place since sunrise, half-heartedly watching the lake's waves as they lapped away at the soils beneath her feet.<p>

There was something about the water, the way it flowed, carelessly and without pretence... she envied it. Her bouts of jealousy were brief, granted, swiftly turned away for being silly and fool-hearted. Water wasn't something to be envied, surely, and yet, she desired its sense of ease nonetheless, wished for the tides to carry her away as easily as leaves in the wind.

Rowena sighed, letting her head fall back, eyes closing slowly. She'd stay there forever if she could, tucked up against the cool rocks with only the birds and the fish for company. Her dream wasn't to be. She had a life, a family, _a child_. Selfish as Rowena might have been, even she wasn't cruel enough for that.

Shivering, she pulled her cloak tighter. Winter was well and truly on its way; it wouldn't be long now before her visits to the loch would be too cold to bear, much to her dismay. No longer could she hide from her responsibilities, only making an appearance in the evening for supper before retiring to bed. She'd be cooped up in the house once again, time split between caring for her babe, and placating her mother.

Helena had come as an unwelcome surprise, to Rowena and her father both. One night of anger-spurred impulsiveness had left her swollen with child, and a hastily arranged marriage to boot.

Domnall was nice enough, simple, but he had a kind heart. They'd met infrequently over the years, on the rare occasions Rowena ventured down to the village. She'd been arguing with her father that night, over what... she could scarcely remember. He forced her hand—set alight the fire inside and shoved her into Domnall's arms. That night was a mistake. She'd been rash, devoid of logic and rational thought entirely.

Rowena sought release, a way to be rid of the rage bubbling beneath the surface; Domnall had provided a willing solution. The deed was done before she even had a chance to think things through. It wasn't a pleasant experience by any means. Neither of them knew what they were doing—her hands were awkward and misplaced, his brutish and unyielding. The night was mediocre at best, certainly not something that provoked a desire for a repeat performance.

When signs of the babe began to show, however, Rowena's father wasn't content to let her name be synonymous with 'wanton harlot', and so the union was forged. The pair were to be wed in the spring, no questions asked.

She fought, at first, unwilling to lose her freedom to someone so undeserving of her attention.

Domnall had magic, as did most of those who dwelled in the village below, but like many of the others, he shied away from his magic, preferring to ignore its existence entirely. He'd shun her love of spells and enchantments, she knew it. Rowena would relent to his wishes, eventually, taking on the ever dutiful role of wife, but she'd hate him for it. Her temperament was not made for the gilded cage, but for the open skies. She'd lose herself to him, become the woman she was expected to be, not the woman she truly was.

That never happened.

Domnall fell ill, an aggressive affliction that left him on Death's door for weeks. He didn't come through.

She'd never been more relieved.

Then the brunt of her pregnancy arrived. Helena hadn't even been born yet, and Rowena already disliked her. Quite simply, she wasn't a woman made for motherhood.

Helena's birth had changed her mind, somewhat. No longer did she scoff and roll her eyes when the child was mentioned, Helena was growing on her, gradually, one day at a time. Rowena didn't avoid her daughter the way she once did, relying on the wet nurse to care for the child. She'd come around to the idea of being a mother, in time.

"M'lady?"

Rowena jumped at the sound of the servant's voice, clutching at the ties of her cloak as tightly as she was able.

She took a deep breath, trying to slow the rapid beating of her heart.

"Your mother's asking for you, m'lady," the girl said hesitantly. "She's been havin' those nightmares again—bad ones, by the sounds of it."

Satisfied that her heart wasn't going to force its way out her chest anymore, Rowena stood, brushing off the dirt that clung to the back of her clothes.

She nodded at the servant, glancing back at the lake for a brief moment before following her back to the house.

* * *

><p>"You look troubled."<p>

Salazar; that was his name.

He'd managed to procure little more than a grunt out of him on their journey back to the house, having to rely on his mother to discover his identity. He was Slytherin's boy—Godric wasn't surprised. The similarities should've been clear from the start.

Having drained the contents of his goblet, Godric languidly eyed the rim, fingers tightly wound around its neck. "What you said before..."

Salazar rolled his eyes, a gesture that scarcely escaped Godric's notice. "She's dead, think no more of her."

His jaw clenched, stomach still as tightly wound in knots as it had been in town. As hard as he tried, Godric couldn't banish her face from memory. Her screams were just as vivid and as blood-curdling as they were hours prior. They would weaken with time, he knew, somewhere in the depths of him, but he struggled to enjoy the feast nonetheless.

"I fear I cannot," he whispered, dipping his head with his eyes shut tight.

"What good comes of these thoughts?" Salazar eased himself into the seat at Godric's left, chair creaking from the weight of him. "You're little more than a child, Godric—surely you didn't overestimate your ability so much as to paint yourself her saviour?"

Godric's hold on the goblet increased. "She didn't deserve—"

Salazar laughed.

"Life rarely grants us what we deserve, and what we desire is bestowed upon us even less."

Taking no notice of Godric's soured expression, Salazar helped himself to the eel in front of him.

He wasn't a child.

Green as he might have been, he deserved more than what Salazar was offering.

_Deserved. _

He groaned inwardly. Irritating as his companion might have been, he had a point. "What would you have me do?" Godric asked quietly, glancing up at Salazar from the corner of his eye.

"Regard her memory with passing sympathy, if you must, but go no further. You'll not sleep easy for a fortnight if you do," he took a sip from his own goblet, "at the very least."

Salazar rose from his chair, nodding curtly. "M'lord."

* * *

><p>With each step towards her mother, Rowena's stomach lurched. How bad would she be today? She didn't have the strength, or courage, to pull Deirdre from her nightmares that day.<p>

For as long as she could remember, her mother was plagued by dreams—some, others could only wish for, the rest horrors you wouldn't even begin to wish on the greatest of enemies. Rowena didn't fall asleep to soothing lullabies, nor wake to bird song; she had only the sounds of screaming to content herself with.

"Rowena?"

She froze, breathing heavily. If her conscience would have allowed her to run, she would have.

"I'm here, Mother," she took a tentative step toward the doorway, hand wavering next to the frame before settling upon it. Rowena didn't dare venture further. The less time she spent in that room the better.

Her entire life was haunted by whispers, rumours no one thought she could hear. _Isn't she the very image of her mother? The same temperament, the same fate. _Eventually, she just... stopped listening, but their words still lingered in the back of her mind. Her life was destined for madness, and the descent had already begun. Its course would be slow, moving at a snail's pace for the moment, but it wouldn't be long before her nights were plagued as incessantly as her mother's.

"The screaming, Rowena," Deirdre extended a hand, eyes locked on what lay outside the window. "They wouldn't stop... couldn't stop. They begged for their children, their wives, their mothers. They cried for mercy..." Rowena moved from the doorframe, gently lowering herself down on the bed, taking her mother's hand between her own. "They were granted none."

Inhaling sharply, Rowena edged further up the bed, wrapping her spare arm around her Deirdre's shoulders. "Shh, they're not here anymore, I promise."

They stayed that way, Deirdre's head tucked into the crook of Rowena's neck as sleep escaped her, until the sky burned red and the clouds had all but faded away.

She never acknowledged her mother's murmurs of discomfort, choosing only to dream dreams of her own, stirring only at the sound of newly arriving horses.

Her father was back. Him and any number of his wizarding friends from beyond Hadrian's Wall. Put lightly, she wasn't looking forward to the numerous introductions ahead of her.

She winced, gently moving her mother to one side as she tried to leave without waking her. For the most part, Deirdre seemed to be sleeping soundly, a state Rowena was very keen on keeping her in.

Managing to slip out from beneath her mother, Rowena padded towards the window, breathing a sigh of relief when the number of soon-to-be acquaintances were far fewer than she'd been expecting.

There were eight of them in total, excluding her father and any distinguishable servants. Each face blended as easily together as the next. All except for one—a woman. She stood apart from the rest, far more interested in her horse than Ravenclaw's grandiose tales. If not for her copper hair, she might have thought her a separate entity from the group entirely.

Rowena did nothing but stare, helplessly rooted to the spot. If it hadn't been for the redhead glancing up in her direction, she would have stared a while longer.


	2. Gryffindor

**Disclaimer: **This chapter's a bit gruesome, it'll ease up a fair bit from this point on, just as a warning.**  
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**GRYFFINDOR**

The village was deserted. Flickers of light protruded from the houses, remnants of the fires that slowly faded within. If he'd been none the wiser, he might have thought the villagers preoccupied with the food that lined their tables—he knew better. It was too quiet for that. Far too quiet. There were no joyous roars of laughter... no indecipherable remarks from men too drunk to find their way home... no desperate pleas for food from those less fortunate... there was something terribly wrong here. Were it not for the shallow breathing of his men and their horses, Gryffindor would have thought the village devoid of life entirely.

It wasn't possible... it couldn't be. An entire village, at least a hundred strong, gone, as quickly as the sun banishes the moon. A wizarding village, at that. Things were safer that way, or, at least, so he thought. No longer could wizards and witches hide in plain sight, no, the Catholics had seen to that. They came together out of necessity, seeking refuge from the threat of the pyre, as did so many wizards before them... and yet, here they were, missing, without a trace.

He knew where to find them, and what state they'd be in when he got there.

There'd been rumours, insignificant whispers at first, but their tales soon gained momentum. They spoke of whole communities being wiped out, their bodies stacked atop one another in the halls of their Thanes. Somebody was sending them a message, a _threat_. Three villages had fallen to their swords already, and Gryffindor now sat at the core of their fourth victim.

Ordering his men to head towards the house overlooking the village, he kicked his own horse into action.

It was Cælin's house. Stubborn, fool-headed Cælin, the man who never did as he was told. Gryffindor frowned, eyes shut tight. They'd been friends once. _Good old Cælin, he never could stay hidden for very long. How many times had he scared the game off with his thunderous feet?_ Slowly opening his eyes, Gryffindor allowed himself a bitter smile. _I'll not stain his memory with sorrow._

Voices sounded off to the side of him, low and barely even there at all. _The wind, and nothing more, _he thought, shaking his head. Far too caught up in his own thoughts, he didn't stop to check.

They'd almost reached the house, and the horrors that lay within. How many would he see with their throats cut? How many women? How many children?

A slit throat would have been the least of their worries. The murderers weren't content to leave it at that... they'd butcher them, as pigs made for the slaughter.

Gryffindor swallowed sharply. "Brace yourselves... this won't be pretty."

He was right. Oh God was he right.

Gryffindor once thought his stomach stronger than the average man's, but even he couldn't bear the stench for very long. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. He knew the smell of death as if an old friend, but this... this was an unrelenting torture of the senses.

No body was spared—they all bore the marks of a monster's touch. They no longer resembled the human form, little more than meat and bones, their flesh all but removed. It wasn't their bodies that bothered him most... but their eyes, so lifeless... and still, they bore holes into his soul. They begged for help, their howling screams clawing at the very edges of his mind. Gryffindor tried to be rid of them, he shook and he shook, willing them to leave him be... they never relented, only cried louder. He relieved the contents of his stomach once more.

His men stood rigidly at the door, none daring to pass through to the makeshift cemetery that lay beyond.

He didn't blame them.

Gryffindor rose to his feet, head ringing so forcefully with songs of the dead, he was barely able to stand at all.

They sounded so broken, so helpless. _They had magic, surely they could have..._ His stomach lurched.

More screams joined them, louder this time. They were so real, so unlike cruel tricks of the mind, he felt as if he'd been there to witness their dying moments.

Glancing up from the carnage, Gryffindor wept. He couldn't stop the tears from falling, even if he tried. The smell burned at the back of his throat, their sad eyes still gazed right through him, it was all he could do not to fall to his knees, never to wake.

He'd seen his fair share of bloodshed in this life, but somehow, nothing even began to compare to what lay before him. He'd never seen such disregard for a man's life, not until he saw what sat before him at the head of the table.

Cælin. Three wands pinned him to the chair: two piercing his hands, the other piercing his heart.

Gryffindor ran towards his friend, stumbling long before he even reached the end of the hall.

_Kill me. _

Tucking his head into his knees, he wept some more.

_Anything to be rid of what I've seen today._

The voices laughed.

"Good old Gryffindor. So noble, so just. We've been waiting for you."

This voice was harsher than the others, unfeeling, so unlike those that came before.

_It can't be real. Can't be. There was nobody else here..._

He turned towards the door – towards his men – his eyes finding nothing but foreign and unfamiliar faces.

_The screaming..._

"Be done with it."

They'd kill him, he wasn't foolish enough to believe otherwise. The quicker he departed from this world, the better.

The voices laughed again, no... _a_ voice. He'd heard that voice before.

The man who spoke crouched down beside him.

"You were kind to me once, I'll not draw out your death as I did his." The man nodded his head towards Cælin, dark eyes twinkling with amusement.

Those eyes... where had he seen those eyes before? Dark as the barest night sky, and as cold as a winter breeze... no light could possibly hope to survive there.

"I know you..."

"No, old man, you knew me."

As the blade pierced his skin, Gryffindor's prayers were answered.

He was free.


	3. Salazar

**A/N:** Apologies for the six-month delay! My schedule got the better of me, unfortunately, but updates will definitely be on a more regular basis now.

**SALAZAR**

It'd been days now. The sun had risen, only to set again, a dozen times over. The roosters had punctuated every morning with their songs, the moon continued to bask in the night sky... life continued as it always had, and yet, they still hadn't received word from Gryffindor. No owl with a poor sense of direction, no bumbling messenger apologising for their delay, not even a grand and efficacious appearance from the man himself. Silence, and nothing more. It made Salazar uneasy.

Gryffindor wasn't exactly a man known for his truancy. Steadfast and noble to the core, the man wouldn't have gone so long without some kind of correspondence. For his friend's sake, Salazar desperately wished he'd come to the wrong conclusion about the man's character.

He'd had his reservations when the council tasked Gryffindor with investigating Caelin's death—the pair were too closely associated. If Caelin had been murdered (and Salazar was convinced he was), whomever killed him would likely find some pleasure in ridding the world of the infamous Gryffindor as well.

A trail of bodies had been building up for months now, each a more prominent witch or wizard than the last. Whole towns had been felled alongside their Thanes, and somehow – _somehow_ – it was all connected. He just didn't know how, or to what extent.

Salazar never did like being left in the dark.

Despite the protests of those higher-ranked than himself, Salazar had made sure to secure himself a place at the heart of wizarding politics. A small, largely inconsequential position in the larger scheme of things, but it was a rank nonetheless. However unfairly won by his father's influences it might have been. Salazar could keep an eye on things that way, never truly getting involved, but a constant observer all the same. But even his relatively well-placed spot in the hierarchy warranted him little information about the supposed disappearance of his friend.

Salazar scowled, a strangled sound begrudgingly escaping his lips before he could stop it.

"By all means, Salazar, do continue dredging up the mud in that little warpath you've got going—you know how it thrills me," his father remarked from the table in the center of the room.

It wasn't until he looked down at the trenches he'd been digging in the ground with his boots that he truly realised how long he'd been pacing for. He'd only intended to look out the window briefly, checking for any signs of Gryffindor's favoured owl or a horse on the horizon, but his thoughts had gotten the better of him. A fact that Salazar harshly scolded himself for. It'd do him no good to be possessed by thoughts of whimsy and conspiracy. Such tenants were better left to those brave enough to wield them.

_Like Gryffindor and – Merlin forbid – Godric. You're not a man made for heroics._

"Salazar."

Disinterestedly glancing up from his boots, he met his father's gaze, as stern and disapproving as the man's demeanour. "Apologies, father. My thoughts were..." he cleared his throat, "elsewhere."

Slytherin scoffed, and Salazar's hands subconsciously balled into fists, fingernails digging into his flesh. It was a sound he'd heard many times before. It wasn't a sound he'd ever grown to like, however.

His father was how one might expect him to be after hearing the rumours. A tall, well-built man, Slytherin was the type that instantly demanded attention, regardless of how undeserving he might have been of such acknowledgements. He was a man of stone—his face carved into the very image of mockery. It was in Slytherin's very nature to scorn everything he saw. If the skies and stars above ever revealed their maker, the man was more likely to obsess over their misgivings than applaud their artistry. His manner of speech might have been considered humorous by some, but that the small minority of people who appreciated Slytherin's jests often happened to be under his influence... seemed no mere coincidence.

"Were I a man disposed to dramatics, I might attempt to feign some degree of shock for your benefit," Slytherin commented disinterestedly, his eyes never leaving the roll of parchment spread out before him. "However, being neither a dramatic creature nor a coddling one, you shall simply have to suffer without."

Rolling his eyes, unbeknownst to his father, Salazar strode towards him. "How ever shall I survive such indignity?" He muttered, more to himself than anyone else. If his father had heard, he made no sign of it.

Salazar spared a glance towards the thing that had so enraptured his father's attentions, frowning slightly when he saw what it was. A map—a technically incomplete one at that. No major landmarks or cities were marked out, none of the expected ones at least, just the wizarding villages... and Stonehenge. What stood out to him, however, were the three hastily drawn crosses scattered across the page. Each one coincided with one of the attacks. Salazar's frown deepened.

Far as he could see, there were no discernible patterns about their locations, nor their Thanes. If not for their wizarding heritage, they would have appeared to be entirely unconnected. _Would have_, had it not been so very obvious that they were.

He moved closer to his father, eyes squinted in concentration as he scoured the parchment for some kind of enlightenment, as if answers were likely to spring from the page beneath his very gaze. They did not.

"Have we heard word from Gryffindor yet?" Slytherin's voice was hoarse, as though the question had escaped him before he'd intended it to.

Frowning once more, brow tightly furrowed, Salazar breathed a sigh of frustration. "Not even a whisper."

His father grunted something indecipherable before dropping his hands to rest on the table, arms framing the width of the map.

"The mystery shall remain such a while longer, it seems," he murmured, taking a step back from the table to pour himself a glass of wine, downing it in one swift motion. "Pity. We had such high hopes for Gryffindor's venture."

"You speak of him as if he's already departed us," Salazar said, the pitch of his voice increasing ever-so-slightly. "His silence is disconcerting, true, but Gryffindor is anything if not resilient. We would be foolish to dismiss his mortality so brazenly."

Slytherin snorted, downing another cup of wine before turning to his son with a raised brow. "Salazar, while your dedication to your friend is admirable, such delusions do you no benefit. Best harden yourself to the inevitable before the news comes. Resilience might have been one of his many virtues, but so was punctuality. He wouldn't have forgone some sort of correspondence for so long."

With a clenched jaw, Salazar bowed his head half-heartedly. "As it please you, father."

Their conversation halted for the time being, he paced back to the slit in the wall, willing the obviously delayed messenger to arrive. He was greeted only by the sounds of livestock and birds alike. His father's words rang true, but Salazar chose not to dwell upon them. For a little while longer, at least.

Although the pair hadn't been friends for long – a year or two at most – Salazar held Gryffindor in particularly high regard. He was a kind man, and a force to be reckoned with even at the worst of times. Someone not necessarily lauded for his brilliant strategies, but certainly his execution

of such things. Gryffindor was fearless, forever the cool voice of reason amidst a raging inferno.

He _was_ such a man.

Salazar sighed, no longer out of frustration, but a deeply rooted sadness. He'd lost a dear companion—and ally. His presence on the wizarding council wasn't exactly the most unanimously agreed with; with Gryffindor gone, he had very few supporters with whom to sustain himself with.

If it hadn't been for the sound of hoof beats outside, he might've been content to wallow a while longer. As it was, he briskly made his way out to greet the visitor, actively ignoring his father's pointed protests to the contrary.

To his dismay, Salazar didn't recognise the woman: hastily dismounting her horse with the help of a servant. She wasn't one of Gryffindor's charge at any rate.

"Speak, friend, what has you here in such a hurry?" Salazar gestured for her horse to be stabled with one hand, ushering her into the house with the other.

"All due respect, sir, my address is intended for his lordship."

Rolling his eyes, the corner of Salazar's lip quirked. "Aye, that it is." He forced a tight-lipped smile before bringing her before his father. "The woman is here to give you an address, father, an important one by the sound of it."

Despite the glare Slytherin threw his way, he made no move to dismiss Salazar. For that, he was grateful and said no more, as way of thanks.

"Acha, m'lord." Noticing the lack of recognition in Slytherin's eyes, she opened her mouth to speak once more. "Oswyn's daughter."

It only took another brief moment before his father seemed to pair the name with the face. "Ah, yes, I remember now. You were younger last we met."

"As you say, m'lord," she replied, hands curled into impatient fists at her side. "The council sent me."

Slytherin chuckled, pouring another cup of wine, drinking from it only when Acha refused his offering. "Of course they did. Their messengers always are the panting ones." He smiled to himself. "Well, go on, what great news does the council bid me hear?"

The woman hesitated for a moment, glancing round to stare at Salazar before turning back.

"Gryffindor's dead."

Salazar shut his eyes tight, hand extending to grip the nearest chair to catch his bearings.

"I suspected as much."

The dull clang of Slytherin's empty cup colliding with the table sounded violently in his ears, louder than it should've been. Salazar chose to focus on little else.

Words were exchanged between the pair, each as undistinguishable as the next. Where it all took place, how they found his body (Salazar couldn't hide the wince that followed that particular tale), when they thought he'd died... it all blurred into one in his mind. His friend was dead, all opportunity for optimism swiftly banished alongside him.

"Does Godric know?" Salazar blurted out the question before he'd even realized.

"A messenger's been sent, sir."

As pained by the news as he was, what he was feeling was unlikely to compare to the turmoil that Godric was soon to experience. The boy wasn't one for masking his emotions, his fury would burn hot and bright, until it threatened to consume his very core. It certainly wasn't a state Salazar was comfortable leaving him in, whether out of obligation to his newly deceased friend or a genuine concern for Godric's well-being, he wasn't sure.

Moving to stand beside him – when he'd vacated his seat, Salazar didn't know – Slytherin clapped a firm hand against his shoulder. "Best see to the boy, make sure he doesn't set the entire town on fire. We've enough problems to deal with already without bringing muggles into it."

Nodding in acknowledgement, Salazar shrugged from his father's hand.

"Do you have the strength for it?"

"I've not exactly got a choice, have I? It's too long a ride to the Hollow," he retorted, brows raised.

"Salazar."

Knowing better than to argue with that particular tone, he conceded. "I'll be fine."

Seemingly satisfied by his somewhat-improved response, Slytherin nodded his head towards the open doorway, strolling back to his seat. "Be sure to send word when the situation's settled, yes?"

Giving his agreement to his father's request, Salazar marched out onto the grounds, making sure to offer some form of farewell to Acha and his father on the way out. The further away he got from them, the better, as far as he was concerned.

The air was heavy—damp from the proximity to the fens, and cold, rife with the promise of the swiftly approaching winter. It was something he'd always appreciated about his home, but even a part of him had to admit to being glad about a chance for clearer air. The western winds were far more crisp, devoid of the thickness that the swamps were prone to giving.

Salazar just had to get there, loathe as he was to do so. They didn't have the luxury of time. Godric was an impulsive man, after all. He had only one option afforded to him: apparition.

Few actually knew how to utilise such magic, even fewer chose to do so—with good reason. It was a magical discovery still relatively new to the wizarding population of Britain. They simply hadn't had the time to work out the numerous flaws in their current techniques. There'd been too many accounts now of wizards and witches arriving at their destinations devoid the appropriate number of limbs. However, it would have to suit his purpose for the time being. He'd gone through the process enough times to feel vaguely comfortable in attempting it again.

Gritting his teeth, eyes clenched shut, Salazar tried his best to focus on the Hollow. The manor house on the hill, the smell of lavender that lingered wherever you went, the vibrant tapestries adorning the walls...

A deafening crack sounded through the air.

Finding himself on solid ground once more, he fell to his knees, narrowly resisting the urge to relieve the contents of his stomach, completely unaware of the servants' gasps as he did so. Fortunately, Gryffindor ensured all his servants were of magical bloodlines—it was safer that way.

Still trying to recover some semblance of sense, Salazar barely noticed one of the serving women as she tentatively approached him.

"Are you alright, sir?"

He laughed despite himself, raising his head to look up at her, though he immediately regretted the sudden movement, grimacing as he spoke. "I've been better."

With that, the woman – she'd attended him before, he knew, but couldn't put a name to the face... Hilla? Hilde? – wrapped both arms around his shoulders and helped him to his feet. Despite the occasional groggy stumble on the way up, his head had cleared for the most part. The pain was no longer sharp and unrelenting, but little more than a dull ache he could easily manage.

"Would you let Godric know I'm here?" His voice was still uneven from the exertion, it'd be a little while yet before the panting stopped.

"I'm afraid he left the house in an awful hurry, sir, what with the news and all," she said, eyes darting uncomfortably to the side every so often. "May he rest in peace."

Salazar let out a bitter scoff. "Aye."

_You can dwell on your sorrows later_, he thought, raising a hand to rub at his forehead. _You've more important things to deal with first._

"And Cralla? How does she fare?"

"Not well, sir. M'lady retired to her room early this morning, we haven't seen her since."

He sighed, moving his hand to scratch the phantom itch at his jaw. "Where was Godric headed?"

Cralla was a rational woman, he could offer his condolences later, without fear of risking an incident.

The servant pursed her lips, brows tight with concentration. "I think he left for the smaller hill overlooking the village—the one with the big oak tree. I couldn't be certain though, sir, he was mighty upset. I wouldn't know where he might be prone to wandering in that sort of mood."

Salazar nodded his head in appreciation before venturing out to the hill she spoke of. If he were a gambling man, it's where he'd wager Godric would be too. For all his rashness and impulse, the boy was, ultimately, fairly predictable when you knew him well enough.

Godric stood, shoulders rising and falling intermittently, his left arm resting solidly against the tree. Breathing a sigh of relief that the boy hadn't gone and done something foolish, Salazar closed the distance between them.

He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it swiftly when Godric decided to make the first remark.

"He—he's really dead, isn't he?"

Frowning, not knowing the best way to console his friend, Salazar placed a hand at the boy's shoulder, gripping it briefly.

Leaning into the touch for momentarily before they separated, Godric sighed, meekly wiping at the tears at his cheek. Salazar turned away at the sight. If the boy didn't want him to see him weep, he'd respect his wishes.

"Your father was a good man," he offered tentatively, unsure of how his words would be received. Poorly, if Godric's snort was anything to go by.

"And now he's a dead man. Doesn't seem fair, does it?"

Salazar shook his head, a sad smile playing on his lips. _He hasn't changed, not even in the slightest._

He took a few languid steps away from the tree, deciding to spare a look at the village below, so unaware of the tragedy that just befallen their lord. _Ah, the delight that ignorance holds._

"Do you remember the last time I found you here?" Seeing Godric signal an affirmative, Salazar continued. "You were so intent on helping that girl, I was almost certain you were ready to run down the hill, your wand held high, screaming at the top of your lungs, ordering them to leave her be. To which I'm glad you didn't, might I add." He chuckled. "I stood there and I thought you the very image of your father. Tainted with the eagerness of youth, mind you, but I was reminded of Gryffindor all the same. Whether that notion holds any comfort, I don't know, but I thought it best to tell you nonetheless."

"I... appreciate it—thank you."

They remained in silence for a while, with only Godric's light sobs and the birds to break it up. If the boy wanted to talk, Salazar would listen. If he didn't, he'd simply offer him a comforting presence. It was the least he could do. Fortunately, it seemed as though the brunt of Godric's sorrows had already been and gone.

"I intend to avenge him," Godric stated calmly, all former displays of emotion banished to whence they came, forcefully breaking Salazar from his reverie.

"Godr—"

"I'll not be moved from this, Salazar. If my father fell to this fabled attacker, I want to see them pay for their sins."

Salazar knew that look, he knew it well. He'd only seen it a several dozen times over the years on Gryffindor's face. Godric had made up his mind, and he'd be resolute in his decision, regardless of anything he might have to say about it.

Deciding to focus on Godric's choice of words than the intentions behind them for the time being, he clasped a firm hand around the boy's shoulder, far firmer than it probably needed to be. "I'll not listen to you use their words, Godric, you know that." He let his hand drop to his side. "As to what you plan to do... I know better than to try and sway you from path, but use caution. These attackers are likely to be a great deal more experienced in these things than you are."

Godric seemed to consider Salazar's words, eyes locked on the horizon, before shaking his head. "They'll not escape me, that I promise you. I've got a spot on the council now, I have resour—"

He laughed, a loud cackle that couldn't be stopped. Godric was still so very naïve. "Oh? You have a place on the council, do you? In what respect?"

Confused by his friend's extreme reaction, Godric stumbled over his words. "With my father's... passing, I'm set to inherit his position, am I not?"

"If only, friend, if only."

_I'd have drowned my father long ago if such a thing were true._

Salazar extended a hand to ruffle the boy's hair in light-hearted mockery. "Council positions aren't inherited, not for a long time now. You have to bow and scrape for everything you get. They'll not make it easy, either. You're going to have to lick your fair share of boots if you want them to help you, boy."

"So they're just going to sit back and let the attacks continue?"

Sensing an unwanted change in Godric's mood, Salazar silenced his laughter. "No, but they'll not help in the way you want them to. They'll make a good show of it, of course, but there _are_ rules. Protocol and whatnot. It's a foul system, but it can't be helped." A knowing smile crossed his lips. "Not yet."

The boy let out an indignant scoff. "Then what would you have me do?"

Salazar hadn't been expecting that. He'd thought Godric would turn around tell him that the council's traditional ways meant nothing, he would succeed all the same. But he didn't, and Salazar felt a twang of emotion – pride, perhaps – at the boy's moment of maturity.

He pondered the question. The council might not give them the information or the means they desired, but that didn't necessarily exclude others from doing so. There were a few particularly well-placed outsiders who could help them uncover the truth. Selwyn, Nereida, Althea... Eadric, if they happened to be persuasive enough—Hufflepuff's daughter, Helga might also have been able to help in some way. They weren't completely without options.

Salazar had a plan, an ill-formed one for the moment, but it would do.

"The council will call a meeting within the fortnight." Godric's head perked up at that. "Any and all available witches and wizards will flock to Stonehenge for the experience of giving their opinion to deaf ears. These mass meetings are usually for the sake of appearances only, a way of... settling the mob, so to speak. They'll be discussing your father's death on their own terms at another time. But, the meeting's our best chance at getting you the help you need, boy. So the meeting's where we shall be."

"And they'll help me find the people who killed my father?"

"Let us hope so, we'll find ourselves in a bit of a predicament otherwise," he remarked, a smile on his face.

Godric's jaw set in a firm line, shoulders noticeably tighter than they were before, he held his head high. "When do we leave?"

Salazar gave a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders as he spoke. "Soon as they give the call."


End file.
